


The Question

by SARA_CAP



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, NAUSEATING FLUFF!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:14:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24101938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SARA_CAP/pseuds/SARA_CAP
Summary: After years of parsing through his feelings, John is finally ready to pop the question. During an anniversary weekend getaway with Sherlock, those same insecurities surface and John needs to quickly overcome them to ask the man he loves to marry him.Just a quick little thing: I decided to include Mary in this timeline, despite not being the biggest fan of hers (and that's being generous). But I think that she contributes A LOT to Sherlock and John'sdynamic and relationship, and I think it's important to mention her.Having said that, Rosie does not exist in this universe. I didn't quite have the strength :PEnjoy!
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 3
Kudos: 30





	1. Chapter 1

Today was the day. The day that would change everything for them. John could feel beads of sweat sliding down his back. Refusing to change his clothes for the third time, John walked out of the cottage and onto the balcony. It was a sunny day with a light breeze blowing through the open field. John could not have been more grateful.

When he had admitted to Mycroft his plan for his and Sherlock’s anniversary weekend, the elder Holmes brother had happily offered up the family cottage in the countryside.

Sherlock, surprisingly, was enthusiastic about a weekend getaway. However, he needed to make sure that he humiliated Scotland Yard first. After Lestrade agreed to drop Sherlock off at the cottage, John took the day off and headed out to get things ready.

John began to tap a nervous beat on his legs, his fingers hitting a small bulky object in his pocket.

The reason for his extreme nervousness.

John had taken a significant chunk out of his rainy day fund to buy the ring. He had also taken advantage of a case to figure out Sherlock’s ring size. The simple silver band was now burning a hole in his pocket.

He wanted the anniversary night to be perfect. Because if Sherlock turned him down…

John furiously shook his head.

He couldn’t go there.

John went back inside and took two quick shots of whiskey. As the golden alcohol slid down his throat, warming it in the process, he decided to get moving on the preparations. He slid a foldable table out from its place next to the fridge and brought it outside. He then set about bringing out all of the best cutlery, china, and miscellaneous objects that he’d raided from the flat, and quickly set the table.

After 45 minutes of frantic scrambling and questioning why he brought them and ingredient prepping, John allowed himself to sit down.

The roast was in the oven.

The salad was prepped.

The refrigerator was stocked, and the table was set.

Despite the underlying feeling of terror in his stomach, John had never felt more excited nor more satisfied. He sat on the steps and lost himself in thought.

He thought back to the first time he laid eyes on Sherlock at St. Bart’s. How this cold, mysterious, beautiful man had deduced his past before he opened his mouth. How he’d agreed to be flatmates with the stranger. And how the whirlwind cases that would follow would inevitably change his life.

“I knew in that pool,” John murmured to the empty field in front of him. The exact moment he knew that he loved the Baker Street detective.

Since then, so much had changed.

So much had happened.

 _Mary_ had happened.

And, despite it all, John managed to find new ways to fall in love with Sherlock every day. So, after three years, John decided that he needed to ask the question. John didn’t know how to share his life properly with anybody else.

“Christ knows, I wouldn’t want to,” John stated to his hands.

A horn blaring startled John out of his reverie. A police car was pulling up in front of the cottage. The driver and passenger side doors opened simultaneously to reveal Sherlock and Lestrade.

“Special delivery!” shouted Lestrade, who had popped his head over the car roof. He seemed, for once, relaxed.

“You’re in a good mood today,” John said, approaching the car.

“That’s because I just cleared up most of their cold case files,” said Sherlock.

Despite the heat, Sherlock was wearing his signature coat. The buttons were open, revealing the blue shirt he was wearing underneath. He looked relaxed, smug, and satisfied.

“I would have finished them, but Greg threatened to have me escorted out. I wasn’t in the mood to fight today.”

The detective then surprised John by bending down and kissing him.

“How are you, love?” he murmured.

His rich, baritone voice sent pleasurable chills up John’s spine.

“Fantastic now that you’re here,” John murmured once his lips were free. The two men’s hands found each other and were quickly intertwined.

“The man should be spending his anniversary with his partner, not at Scotland Yard,” Lestrade said, coming around from the driver’s side. “Unfortunately, he’s never known what was good for him.”

He was giving Sherlock his most fatherly look. But there was no hiding the fondness underneath.

“Yeah, well, that’s where I come in,” John said, squeezing Sherlock’s hand.

“You boys have any plans for the weekend?” Lestrade asked.

“Oh, I’m sure John has an itinerary that I’ll be less than gently dragged along to,” Sherlock replied, barely concealing his mocking smile.

“And you’ll enjoy every second of it!” John replied, in kind.

Lestrade chuckled. “Well, it’s good that the place is pretty isolated. Also, the house seems sturdy enough. You know how older houses can be: shaking at the slightest...”

“Alright,” Sherlock interrupted, quickly grabbing his briefcase. “It’s been a long day. I’m going inside to drop off my things and change.”

John snorted and quickly covered his mouth as he watched Sherlock make a bee-line for the cottage.

“You’re welcome!” Lestrade called after the detective.

There was a slight pause before a distant, “Thank you,” floated back.

“He makes it so easy, that boy,” Lestrade said.

His look then turned conspiratorial. “Have you got it?”

John nodded, composing himself.

“Yeah,” John replied. “Yeah, it’s currently in my pocket.”

“When are you going to do it?” Lestrade asked.

“Honestly, I don’t know,” John said, his chest suddenly feeling very tight. “I don’t even know what I’m going to say or how to bring it up.”

“I say you do it tonight,” Lestrade suggested, putting his hands into his pockets. “Get the torture over and done with. That way, you can cut your losses short if…”

“Greg,” John said, his tone quickly turning military captain. “I appreciate that you’re trying to help. But I can’t go there. I can’t.”

Lestrade nodded. “I understand. But if something comes up or you need anything, anything at all, call me. I’ll come up.”

John was starting to feel the prickling of tears in his eyes.

“Thanks, mate. I appreciate it. I’m just…bloody petrified.”

Lestrade nodded sympathetically before pulling John into a bone-crushing hug that John didn’t know that he needed.

“Good luck, mate,” Lestrade said, clapping John on the shoulder.

The two men shook hands before Lestrade turned on his heel and walked back to his car. John waved after him, absently and dissociated.

How was he going to survive the weekend if Sherlock…?

If Sherlock…?

“If he says no," John whispered.

He turned back to the cottage, his gaze falling on the semi-set table on the porch. He had to make the best of every moment. Quickly shaking himself and rubbing his eyes, John walked back towards the house.


	2. Chapter 2

When John walked back into the house, he found Sherlock in the kitchen, aimlessly pacing around and curiously analyzing the space. He was currently holding up the bottle of whiskey and seemed to be dissecting the label.

And John almost fell over upon seeing him.

The blue shirt that John had peeked at earlier was closer to a navy blue. The sleeves were rolled up and the first three buttons were open, revealing his neck and collar bones. He was wearing his staple black trousers, but they were so perfectly fitted that it outlined his lower body to a T.

But it was the detective’s hair that caught John’s eye. Sherlock’s fly-away curls had been tamed with product, making them sleeker and sharper.  
Incredibly attractive.

“Ah, John,” Sherlock said, acknowledging the doctor. “I thought you were going to spend the evening with Lestrade on the porch. Was he trying to convince you that everything was under control at Scotland Yard? And not that his cold case file team should be sacked for incompetence and idiocy?”

Sarcastic, cutting comments with an undertone of love and humor melted John to his core.

“Christ, I love him,” John thought, feeling a smile slowly spread on his face. This made Sherlock’s eyebrows furrow in concern.

“Not good?” he asked.

John shook his head. “No, it’s not that. Just…come here.”

Sherlock’s face quickly relaxed in relief. He set down the bottle as John walked up to him. When the pair met, their lips connected before their hands did. John linked his arms around Sherlock’s neck while Sherlock’s hands wound around John’s waist. The kiss was slow and deep, almost wanting to make up for their time apart.

  
“I guess I didn’t say anything wrong?” Sherlock asked when both men were able to speak.

  
“Nothing out of the ordinary,” John murmured. His fingers traveled down to Sherlock’s open lapel.

“You cleaned up pretty well. Not to mention that you smell fantastic.”

  
He was referring to Sherlock’s light, musky cologne.

  
Sherlock chuckled. “Not very difficult. And given that you’ve been busy, you look quite dashing yourself.”

“Thank you, darling,” the doctor said, quickly pecking Sherlock’s lips.

  
John separated from Sherlock to lean against the counter, never letting go of Sherlock’s hand.

  
“I assume you’ve been indulging, given the bottle here and the set table outside. Therefore, I deduce that you’re nervous, for some reason.”

John squeezed the detective’s hand playfully. “What does the table have to do with it?”

  
“Well, whenever your alcohol levels go above zero, you tend to get busy. You’re not exactly subtle about it.”

  
John laughed with mock offence, “Alright then, Mr. World Renowned Consulting Detective. Care to elaborate over a drink?”

  
“I don’t see why not,” Sherlock agreed.

  
John let go of Sherlock’s hand to grab two clean glasses. Once the golden liquid was poured, the two men raised their glasses in a toast.

  
“To us,” John said. “Happy anniversary, Sherlock. I hope our weekend is perfect.”

  
His free hand had fallen to his jacket pocket, reminding him of the box in there. He prayed to whomever that Sherlock hadn’t heard the small crack in his voice. But the detective clinked his boyfriend’s glass with a steady smile.

“Happy anniversary, John.”

*******

Once John had ensured that their dinner wouldn’t explode if left alone, the two men took their drinks outside. Twilight was just creeping onto the horizon and the sun lowering in the sky cast a soft magenta glow over the sprawling fields and trees. Sherlock had eagerly taken John’s offer of dissecting his organizational habits when intoxicated, and John was happy to let him babble on. Seeing Sherlock comfortable enough to unpack his thoughts and feelings (as slightly condescending and sardonic as they were) made John feel more than a little warm inside.

Or maybe it was the whiskey.

“And that is why the colours in your wardrobe are less than advisable," Sherlock stated, downing what was left in his glass. John could feel how dopey his smile was when Sherlock turned to gauge his response.

  
“You didn’t process a damn word I just said, did you?” Sherlock asked, a subtle hint of annoyance in his voice.

  
“Of course, I did,” John said, leaning further into the porch. “Stuff about alcohol, my closet, “I need to rethink my color palette”, stuff like that?”

  
Sherlock’s face pulled down into a pout. “Selecting buzz words from my speech doesn’t count as listening,”

  
Seeing that he’d stung Sherlock, John found Sherlock’s hand and interlaced their fingers.

  
“You looked so happy and engrossed that I didn’t want to interrupt you. Plus, you look so adorable when you’re buzzed.”

  
Sherlock was trying to keep up his annoyed façade but, more than likely due to the alcohol began to laugh.

God, he had the most beautiful laugh.

  
“I guess I’ll commit myself to be a pretty face to you,” Sherlock said.

John heard the challenge. Placing his glass precariously on the barrier, he clapped his hands around the detective’s face, forcing the latter to look at him.

  
“I’ve listened to your beautiful and wise thoughts for so many years. I’m allowed to focus on something else now and again.”

  
John then went one step further and kissed Sherlock, caressing the back of the detective's neck. Sherlock gladly accepted the kiss…and then did something unexpected. He wrapped his arms around John’s waist and lifting the doctor off his feet! John gasped as his legs cinched themselves around Sherlock’s hips. He only relaxed when he felt the barrier underneath him. John started giggling uncontrollably, causing him to break the kiss.

  
“What…what was that?” he gasped.

  
“That’s what you get for mocking me,” Sherlock said smugly.

  
“Have you been working out?” John asked.

  
Sherlock shrugged. “I do take breaks while doing cases...mostly when I’m bored.”

  
“Well, I have noticed that you seemed a little… firmer lately,” said John, deftly squeezing Sherlock’s bicep. He received a pinch on the inner thigh for his troubles.

  
“First, you kiss me in front of Greg. You’re drinking and now you’ve swept me off my feet. You’re just full of surprises today, aren’t you?”

  
“Well, I’ve been…studying. Public displays of affection seem to be normal amongst humans. Is that…right?”

  
The flash of worry in Sherlock’s eyes warmed John’s heart, the alcohol notwithstanding. John went ahead and snuggled his head into Sherlock’s neck.

  
“Yes, it’s alright,” he murmured. “It’s very…. you.”

  
That was the correct answer because Sherlock relaxed into him. The two men let time stop as they embraced, feeling safe and scared to lose the other.

  
Two sudden crashes startled both of them out of it. The two looked around wildly before noticing the various shards of glass in the grass, glinting in the setting sun. This caused the duo to dissolve into laughter, their foreheads connecting in the process.

  
“Jesus,” John gasped. “I think we need to lay off the drink.”

“Agreed,” Sherlock replied.

  
“Come on,” John said, clapping Sherlock on the shoulders. “Let’s go inside. With our luck, the roast is now ashes. 

*******

“John, you’re being ridiculous,” Sherlock said, peering over John’s shoulder. The doctor was attempting to get the roast and sides onto two plates.

“No, I want to treat you tonight. Just go sit outside and I’ll bring it out,”

“I have two perfectly functioning hands. I can serve myself,” Sherlock whined, taking hold of John’s carving knife.

“Alright, enough!” John said, yanking the knife back into his chest. “You’ve been bouncing around restlessly since we came back inside. If you do not let go, I will tie you to a chair. Understood?”

When John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers came out, Sherlock knew better than to argue. At least, not right now.

“Yes, sir,” the detective murmured, a flirty smile creeping onto his face. “I’ll be outside.”

Once John had his space back, he quickly piled both of their plates with copious amounts of food. But before he went outside, he hung his jacket on a chair, making sure that the box in the pocket hadn’t evaporated.

He came outside to find Sherlock sitting at one end of the table, taking in the surroundings, as well as the beginnings of the sunset. To John’s delight, the detective’s eyes popped open upon seeing the food.

  
“Oh, my God…” he murmured.

  
“I hope you like it,” John said, grabbing his chair and pulling it up to the table.

  
“This…this is fantastic,” Sherlock said.

  
“Oh! Before I forget….” John took a lighter out of his pocket and lit the two candles that sat on the width of the table. John quickly caught a glimpse of Sherlock’s soft and awestruck smile over the candlelight.

John wished he could frame it.

  
“You thought of everything,” Sherlock said.

  
“I wanted everything to be perfect,” John said. “We deserve it.”

He then reached across the table and took his boyfriend’s hand, gently pressing his lips to the detective’s knuckles.

“Go on, dig in.”

Dinner couldn’t have turned out better if John had bribed a deity. Sherlock dug into his roast like he hadn’t eaten in weeks. The quiet that surrounded them made the event all the more intimate. The pair made eyes at each other all the while, making the other giggle like school children. When Sherlock left to grab seconds, John looked out into the distance and thought the words “Thank you” as hard as he could.

When Sherlock came back out, he had a plate of food in one hand and the bottle of whiskey in the other.

“I thought we agreed to not drink anymore,” John said.

“On special occasions, people tend to indulge in alcohol. I don’t see why we can’t be any different.”

John laughed. “Well…. if you insist.”

The doctor poured their drinks while Sherlock dug into his food.

“Did you not eat today?” John asked.

“I was busy," Sherlock said between bites of salad.

When John stopped pouring the alcohol, Sherlock knew he had said something wrong.

“I promise it was just today,” the detective said. “I could outline my meals for the last two days, down to the calories.”

“No need to do that,” John murmured. “It’s just…you know I worry.”

“I know,” Sherlock said. “I wish you wouldn’t.”

“I try not to, love,” John said. “I just wish you would slow down and take care of yourself.”

John felt Sherlock’s hand slide onto his knee and gently squeeze.

“I do,” he said. “I do it for you.”

John squeezed Sherlock’s hand back. “I want you to do it for you.”

Sherlock nodded. “I’ll work on it.”

With that, the detective raised his glass, and John clinked it with his own.

“I’m holding you to it,” John said.

As John took a sip of his drink, he watched Sherlock gingerly sip at the whiskey. He started to chuckle.

“What?” Sherlock asked.

“Nothing,” John said. “Just… I haven’t drunk this much in a while. Easily since my stag night,”

The second that the words were out of his mouth, John felt a lightning strike of regret shoot through him. Sherlock’s face had crumpled, and his previously relaxed posture had tensed. A moment of awkward silence passed between them that made John want to bury himself in the ground.

“Do you still think about her?” Sherlock’s voice was small and quiet.

“Sherlock, I didn’t mean to…”

“No, it’s alright,” Sherlock said, looking up at John. “I…I’m glad you brought it up.”

Sherlock’s voice remained quiet, but it wasn’t angry or hurt. John downed his drink so that he wouldn’t have to look at his boyfriend’s gaze.

“Do you?” Sherlock asked again.

John sighed, feeling a lump beginning to form in his throat.

“All the time. I…I can’t help it. She’ll just appear in my dreams and I usually wake up feeling more than a little confused.”

Sherlock was silent for a moment. He seemed too enthralled in his glass to make John comfortable.

“I take it that it means you miss her?”

Sherlock didn’t have to articulate it. John knew what he was implying.

“I think a part of me does. My time with her was turbulent and intense, but… I would be lying if I said that it was all bad.”

John had years of confusion and shame on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn’t explain any of it. Sherlock’s eyes had visibly clouded over and had become stormy.

“But it sounds like you think about her, as well,” John murmured. “I don’t blame you…”

Sherlock let out a sad laugh.

“Very difficult to forget the woman who shot you. Tends to leave a lasting impression.”

John couldn’t help but laugh, despite the chill running up his spine.

“But she made you happy. Anyone with two functioning eyes could see it. So, I had no qualms about doing everything that I could to protect you both. Clearly, I failed, so…” The detective shrugged and downed the contents of his glass. The beginnings of tears were forming in his eyes.

John couldn’t take it anymore.

He put down his glass and firmly walked over to Sherlock’s side of the table. He immediately sat down in Sherlock’s lap. The latter seemed surprised, but he gladly accepted the gesture.

“Do you know why I brought up the stag night?” John asked, running his index finger across Sherlock’s cheekbones. Sherlock shook his head.

“It’s because it was the best night of my life.”

John’s fingers had now made their way behind the detective’s head to gently stroke his neck.

“I was stumbling around London, drunk, with the only person who ever made me feel truly whole. Laughing and smiling like a teenager at a year eleven ball.”

John paused to look around them. A small breeze had started blowing again, gently pulling the grass and trees with it.

“I’ve also fallen asleep to the memory of your extraordinary best man speech. It was… it was the first truly validating thing that anyone had ever told me. You also prevented the murder of a dear friend of mine, which was much appreciated.”

Sherlock laughed, a light blush adorning his cheeks.

“I wanted tonight to be perfect so that I could recreate that feeling,” John continued. “I have to say that eating dinner by a sunset with the man I’m madly in love with does the trick.”

Sherlock’s smile was small and soft, but it was believing. John leaned forward and kissed the detective’s forehead.

“You know that I love you, right?”

Sherlock, in turn, took John’s hand and kissed it. “I do. Believe me, I do.”

The detective quickly wiped away the tears that had escaped his eyelashes.

“Well, now that all of that emotion’s been dealt with, would you mind if I showed you something?”

“Absolutely, darling,” John said.

“Well, you would need to disembark from my lap first,” Sherlock said, running his hands quickly up John’s legs.

John gladly complied. As he watched Sherlock walk back into the house, he knew that his mind was about to process what just transpired (and improperly, at that). Thankfully, Sherlock re-emerged carrying his laptop before that could happen. In his very Sherlock way, he looked up just long enough to acknowledge John’s raised eyebrows with a smirk before placing the laptop onto the table and fiddling with it.

The sound that proceeded to float out of the laptop almost knocked John’s knees out from under him.


	3. Chapter 3

The heartbreaking violin notes pierced the sky and immediately John felt his throat tighten. Sherlock reached out his hand.

“I spent a lot of time trying to teach you how to waltz. Care to show me if you still remember?”

  
John started feeling tears welling up in his eyes and he could only nod. He reached out and grasped Sherlock’s hand.

  
The hands that had composed and performed this very song on his wedding day.

“Shall I lead?” Sherlock asked.

  
“I think you should,” said John, surprised that those words were able to exit his throat.

  
Sherlock took John’s waist and John grasped Sherlock’s shoulders.

And they began to dance.

John could not believe that he remembered the steps after all these years. The two men fell into step and were perfectly in sync with the music. John allowed his head to rest on Sherlock’s chest and the detective instinctively held him tighter, resting his head on John’s.

“When the hell did you do this?” John murmured.

“Remember when I asked you to find St James of London pomade for me?”

“Let me guess, it doesn’t exist?” John asked.

“No, it exists,” Sherlock said. “I just didn’t need it. But it gave me ample time to record this.”

John sighed and squeezed Sherlock’s hand. “You’re such a cock.”

“But you wouldn’t have me any other way?” Sherlock asked, a tinge of worry in his voice.

“Not even close,” John whispered, snuggling back into Sherlock’s chest.

The next few moments were filled with the most blissful silence, except for the sound of the violin pushing and pulling through the evening sky. Almost like it was stitching something together.

Repairing it.

John recognized every single note. The only thing that had changed was the key. The song was still poignant and devastating, but with a little hint of…

Hope.

Happiness.

Serenity.

John didn’t dare say the words aloud lest he shatter the perfection.

The end of the song was a few bars away and John knew what was coming. He unstuck himself from Sherlock’s chest to make sure that he was looking in his boyfriend’s eyes when it happened. And Sherlock’s mischievous eyes were asking him, “Are you ready?”

John nodded and loosened himself, allowing Sherlock to flawlessly dip him. As the last note played, Sherlock lifted the doctor back up to standing.

The two men’s eyes never left each other

John slipped his fingers around the detective’s face and pulled him in for a kiss. A kiss so hard that John worried that one of their teeth might break. Sherlock’s hands around him were so tight that he worried his ribs would give way. But the kiss itself was soft, gentle and deep. It lasted for what felt like hours. As often as the pair had kissed, John felt like it was the closest they had ever been.

By the time they separated, both men had tears misting in their eyes.

“Thank you,” John murmured.

“I’m glad to see that my lessons weren’t a lost investment,” Sherlock replied.

“I love you,” John whispered, planting another kiss on Sherlock’s cheek. “I love you so much.”

“As do I,” Sherlock murmured, embracing John. “Happy anniversary, my doctor.”

*******

John excused himself to go to the washroom while Sherlock promised to clean up the table. He made it into the toilet and closed the door before he slid down onto the floor. The barrier in his mind tumbled to the ground and every painful memory from the last few years slammed into him. His wedding day, his confusion when Sherlock left, his miserable life with Mary, every horrible thing he had done to Sherlock in the wake of her death…

How Sherlock had almost walked out of his life to certain death for the third time.

Sherlock deserved better. Better than a man who suppressed his feelings. A man who left him behind to pursue a fantasy he could never embody.

Who blamed him when that fantasy blew up in his face.

“He deserves better than me,” John whispered.

Thoughts of Mary entered his mind. She had saved him from the edge. But he had been miserable with her.

And then her true identity was revealed. Lies upon lies upon manipulation so thick that you could cut through it.

“Sherlock never made me feel that small,” he whispered. “Well, not all the time.”

And how had he repaid the detective?

“By choosing her,”

John got up and made himself stare into the mirror. He deserved to be happy. He deserved the second chance that he was being given.

But did the second chance deserve him?

His thoughts raced back to the box hiding in his pocket. He had to do it tonight. Before he talked himself out of it.

“I have to do it right now,” he told the empty toilet. He forced a smile onto his face to stop the tears from falling and walked out of the toilet.

From his peek into the living area, Sherlock was absorbed in staring at the ceiling. Praying that he was in his mind palace, John snuck into the kitchen and slid the box out of the jacket pocket. Gently squeezing it for luck, he put in into his trouser pocket and walked as firmly as he could back into the living room.

  
Only through a gentle poking on his face did Sherlock come back down to Earth.

“Ah, John,” he said, lifting himself onto his elbows. “I was wondering what was taking you so long. I almost came to check on you.”

“Yeah, clearly,” John said with a smirk, gesturing to the detective’s position.

Sherlock pulled his face into a pout before making space for John. The two sat there in silence, Sherlock’s head resting on John’s shoulder as the two held hands. John began to silently pray.

That he could photograph this entire evening.

That he could scan and save how whole he felt at this moment.

That he could imprint the feeling of Sherlock on his skin.

“If everything goes to shit, these memories will carry me.” John thought.

“John,” Sherlock said suddenly, making the doctor jump. “Can I talk to you about something?”

“Of course,” John said.

Sherlock separated from John and turned to face him. His shoulders were slightly tense, and he looked suddenly nervous.

“Is everything alright?” John asked, suddenly concerned.

“Yes, everything’s alright,” Sherlock said. “It’s just…I…I wanted to…”

The detective fumbled with something in his pocket before extricating a small, flat box. His fingers shaking, he flipped the box open to reveal a simple gold band nestled in synthetic foam.

When the detective awkwardly slid off the couch onto one knee, the reality of what John was seeing set in and he clapped a hand to his mouth.

“Sherlock…” John started, but the latter firmly interrupted.

“John, please. I need to say my piece before I lose my nerve.”

John let out the breath he’d been holding through his fingers. Sherlock inhaled sharply in turn and began.

“John Hamish Watson…. You have been my best friend and my constant companion for all of these years. I was lost, broken and impossibly alone. When you came along, you brought a shining light into my world. You taught me that it was possible to trust and love other people. I know that I am difficult and intolerable to live with, and I will never understand how humans fully work. But you have accepted me for every flaw and mistake and trauma that I have put you through. You have made me a better person to the core of my being, and I don’t want to spend another moment walking beside you, calling you less than my soulmate.”

  
Sherlock’s voice cracked and he rubbed at his eyes before continuing.

“As fate would have it, I’ve been given a second chance at making a vow, and I intend to make true on it. If you’ll have me, I’ll spend every moment that I am breathing protecting you and making you happy. I love you more than words could ever properly express. So, since this is how people do it, will you marry me?”

Sherlock finally let out his breath and looked at John, the tears finally spilling down his face.

The tears were freely flowing down John’s face, as well. The doctor began to laugh, surprised that the lump in his throat would allow it. Sherlock seemed to only now realize the effect of his words and his face creased in worry.

“John, what’s wrong? Did I say something wrong?”

John could only shake his head and raise his index finger for Sherlock to wait. He shoved his hands into his pocket and pulled out the box that had been weighing on him for weeks. He managed to flip the box open, despite his swimming eyes to reveal the ring inside.  
It was now Sherlock’s turn to be shocked as John slid onto one knee in front of him. His eyes looked like they were verging on popping out of his head.

“You got your turn. Now it’s mine,” John said, his voice temporarily steadying.

Sherlock nodded, his face slack with shock.

“Sherlock Holmes, the number of ways that I could tell you I love you could fill novels. But you gave me a life worth living. I was so alone, traumatized from war and directionless. You gave me the adventure that I needed…and you gave me your life to share. And my gratitude for that goes beyond words.”

His voice began to crack. He exhaled roughly and continued.

“But I have been less than perfect. I pushed you away to follow a fantasy. I allowed someone else to break me. And I hurt the man that I love in so many unspeakable ways. You deserve someone to match your intelligence, your wisdom, and your massive heart. I want to be the man that you deserve, and I will work until the grave to prove it to you. Because despite what I’ve demonstrated, I choose you. I choose you every time. So, William Sherlock, will you make me the happiest man on Earth and marry me?”

Despite the tears and sniffling, Sherlock’s eyes had brightened.

“You still haven’t answered my question. I asked you first,” Sherlock said, his childish grin back on his face.

John felt his smile grow. “Of course, I will. A thousand times, yes!”

The doctor let Sherlock take his hand and slip the ring on his finger (after almost putting it on the wrong finger).

“Now you have to answer mine,” John said.

Sherlock smiled. “Yes, John Watson. I will marry you. I will be your husband.”

John slipped the ring onto Sherlock’s finger, marvelling at how perfectly it fit him.

The two looked at each other before launching themselves into an embrace. They held each other hard, willing their bodies to meld together. When they pulled apart, they kissed each other with relief, love, and infinite happiness.

“I’m so happy,” John breathed when his mouth was free. “I don’t know what I would have done if you had said no.”

“John, you’re my doctor and my partner,” Sherlock said, kissing John’s forehead.” “I want us to be properly united.”

He then went on to inspect the ring on his finger.

“It’s so beautiful,” he murmured. “I hope you didn’t bankrupt yourself.”

“I would spend it ten times over,” John said fondly. “And don’t you dare get insecure about my ring. It’s absolutely perfect.”

“That’s exactly what Lestrade said when I asked him about it.”

John looked up from his hand. “You confided in Greg about proposing?”

“Yes, why?” Sherlock asked. When John began to laugh, Sherlock understood.

“That sly fox…” the detective said, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I’m surprised he was able to keep it a secret from both of us," John said, wiping his streaming eyes.

“I’m cleaning out all of his cold case files, and I’m fighting anyone who tries to stop me,” Sherlock said as he got up. He offered John his hand and helped him up. John put his hands on Sherlock’s hips and looked softly up at the detective.

“Are you happy?” he asked.

Sherlock’s hands were tracing the back of his neck. “Yes. This night has been beyond my wildest dreams. Thank you, John.”

“That makes two of us, love.”

“I love you, John Watson. Watson…. Holmes?”

Sherlock seemed to be feeling the names on his tongue.

“I love you too," John said. "And we have time to figure out the configuration of our names.”

The two then went upstairs to their bedroom and frolicked in the excitement about their future. As they fell asleep intertwined, there was one thing they could agree on: Mrs. Hudson would have the time of her life planning their wedding!


End file.
